We Are The Four Horsemen (Goodnight)
by Boudicca1
Summary: The four horsemen. It's a catchy name. And if everyone thinks that it's just a stage name... well It's not their fault.
1. Act I (War)

**I think I've been reading Good Omens too much bc I watched this movie and then decided that they actually were the four horsemen and this happened. Also, blaming this on my friend Zach who promised to stop me before I did something like this again.**

 **Warnings: implied minor character death, war, violence**

* * *

She is the first to arrive. She rides into town at dawn, carried on a wave of bloodlust, fury, and adrenaline. Her hair is red.

(So very, very red)

(They don't notice)

She slinks through the streets, gathering a crowd. A brush of skin, a flash of a smile, a whispered promise. They eagerly flock to her.

She has gained her audience. It's time for her to take the stage. She is set alight by the sunrise behind her. Her hair looks like fire.

She dances—sinuous curves not quite masking the sharp edges lurking underneath. She draws her blade and it sings with the tangy scent of copper and iron. She dances to its song and they love it. It's the oldest song in the world.

They join her in her dance. They sing the song with their words, their knives, their fists. The beat pulses through them as blood in their veins. She was born to perform, they think.

They fill the air with screams—of rage, of pain, of triumph. She knows it for the applause it is.

She bares her teeth. They cut themselves on that smile and beg for more. She obliges. Every performer knows when to indulge an encore.

It was quiet before she came.

(It won't be quiet again until much later—when the only sound is the crunch of ashes under blood-soaked feet.)


	2. Act II (Pestilence)

He is the second to arrive. He slinks in at noon, pale and white. He walks alone with a congenial smile, nodding amicably at people as they pass.

(He seems like a nice young man, they think.)

(Say, is there a cold going 'round?)

They aren't drawn to him like they are to his sister. She attracts them like a moth to flame, right before she sets them alight. But then, she's always loved attention.

He is content to mingle, flowing from one place to the other, never staying in any one spot. He meets people. He greets them, grasping sweaty palms of shaking hands. He asks if they're okay. They shake off his concern—they're fine, they insist. They're feeling a bit peaky, and okay, maybe they could stand to rest for a moment, but they're fine. He smiles and leaves them to it.

He passes a grocery store, and sees a teenager struggling with their bags. He puts a hand on their arm to steady them, and offers to carry a bag or two. They decline, but thank him for his offer. Shrugging, he walks away.

(They make it all the way to their car before they collapse, coughing.)

(The corners of his mouth twitch up in what, on another person, could be called a smile.)

But still, he ambles on, passing the library, the post office, a restaurant. They welcome him. And why wouldn't they? He's such a nice young man, always helping people. Even when their sores start seeping fluid, he just hands them a handkerchief and pats them on the back, before moving on.

(He really does have a beautiful smile.)


	3. Act III (Famine)

The horizon has just finished blotting out the sun when he creeps in. He settles in just as dusk falls, sinking into the buildings, the ground, the very bones of the city. No one notices.

(Why would they?)

(He blends in so well.)

He slips through the streets, whispering past crowds, scarcely touching them.

(There are not many crowds.)

(Not anymore.)

In an alley, he comes across a cluster of trembling limbs. They're attached to a young girl. Her skin is pasty, her cheeks sunken in, bags under her eyes as dark as bruises. There are shadows cast in the hollows of her collarbone, framing her neck like a twisted piece of jewelry.

He gives her a slight nod as he brushes past. She might've even returned it; he's not sure. She's shaking too hard for him to tell.

An emaciated rat trails behind him. Instead of a footprint, he leaves a card in his wake.

(It's the Jack of Spades.)

(The rat doesn't know that.)

The rat gnaws on the card like it'll never taste food again.

(But then, animals always were perceptive.)

He emerges from the alley looking as composed and unruffled as when he entered it, to nobody's surprise.

(Not that there are many people to be surprised anymore.)

As he strides along the streets he leaves no trace of his presence behind him, the only indicators of his presence the faint feeling of something having passed and the soft echo of his footsteps.

(He is the youngest of them, but don't let that fool you.)

(He'll be around for a long, long time.)

 **A/N**

hey sup guys I'm back

I told you I would continue this fic and I will if it's the last thing I do

good news, though: I promise chapter four won't take a year and a half to update

oops sorry about that


	4. Act IV (Death)

It is midnight now. The shadows undulate in such a way that someone watching could interpret them to be limbs.

(There is no one watching.)

(Not anymore.)

There is another being among the shadows, and he's moving too.

He idles along the streets, creeps among the shadows, skims through the air. As he passes, people are still. Air ghosts past their lips for the final time. They lie there, peaceful and voiceless.

(His steps are silent too, though one would expect his feet to crush the ashes that lie beneath them.)

He flows around the buildings like ink. After he passes them, the bricks have deep, tenebrous cracks that permeate the buildings from the roofs to the foundations. Mortar crumbles and windows splinter, shards of glass falling from steep heights to the ground below.

(It doesn't matter.)

(There's nobody to use them anymore.)

Though he drifts around idly, he is gradually drawing nearer to the centre square.

(It's the same place his sister made her debut)

He sees three figures standing alone.

His siblings are waiting for him.

He is not there, and then he is.

The air trembles as he approaches a corner. The others have already congregated there.

As he silently appears behind them, fading into view, Famine is the first to notice. "Hi," Famine says, voice silken.

The other two nod in greeting.

"Hello," he responds, voice mild.

He smiles.

War shivers, though she isn't cold.

"When did you get here?" She queries, even though she knows the answer.

"I never left," he replies.

(It is the truth, after all.)

(He is not like the others.)

"So," he says, "same time next week?"

His three siblings look at each other, meeting gazes and nodding in acknowledgement.

"We'll be there," affirms War.

"I'll be waiting," replies Death, before melting back into the shadows.

(The sun is rising.)

As if by an unspoken agreement, the three others take one last look at each other before turning around and going their separate ways. There are no heartfelt goodbyes or promises to keep in touch. They don't need them.

Each one walks away from the others without glancing back, before they fade into the light of the approaching dawn. They will see each other again soon.

After all, everybody loves a show.

(They are the four horsemen.)

(Goodnight.)


End file.
